* * *
The next morning, as breakfast came, Mother told me to ask the Gerbers to come into our tent right after they picked up their tea and slice of stale bread. When we had all gathered, Mother took out the bag of rolls Mr. Schwartz had brought and gave us each a half in celebration, she said, of Iboya’s birthday. “Today is May 1. Iboya is sixteen years old.” Iboya blushed, but looked pleased and thanked Mother. Then she turned to leave.
“A moment, Iboya,” said Mrs. Gerber suddenly. “I would like also to do something for your birthday. It will do us all good. Can you be back before they bring supper?”
“I’ll try,” she said, as she slipped out of the tent.
As soon as we could get away from our mothers, Judi and I walked around the allowed area outside the sheds and talked very softly of nothing else but the danger that our friends were now involved in, a danger that involved us all.
Judi decided that we all had no future, no matter what the men decided to do. “If they decide to take action, it will be disastrous for all of us, but most especially for them. Yet they wouldn’t be considering such a futile plan if they felt that our going to Germany wasn’t also hopeless.”
“Anything they could possibly do will only backfire. So I hope they don’t do anything,” I said. “I’d rather take my chances on going to Germany and working in their factories. Mother said that at the very least they will have to feed us because in order to work, you have to eat.”
“Food is not everything,” Judi retorted and went on, “I’m getting to the point where I don’t even get hungry. I wish I were a man. At least they can make plans. They don’t sit around doing nothing like our mothers, like us.”
“But even if we were men, Judi,” I said, “we are only thirteen years old.”
“Age is not everything, either,” she countered. “Personally, I feel a lot older than thirteen, and I don’t want to be separated from Gari. Last night he told me that the youth police are staying to help until all of us have been transported and they will be the last to leave here. We might only have a day or two together left, and I am not ready to part.”
As Judi finished speaking, I thought about being separated from Henri, and I felt sad, too. “Let us make a pact,” Judi said, “and promise that we will act like women if the two of them come by for us this evening. It would be nice if we could dance together one more time. But whatever happens, let’s act grown-up. We might not have another chance.”
“I think I’ll go back to the tent and write a poem for Iboya’s birthday,” I said, changing the subject.
“Good idea. I think I will look among my books for one to give her,” said Judi.
That afternoon we were gathered in the tent for Iboya’s second birthday party. Shafar walked her back from the kitchen at 4 p.m. He had given her his school ring as a present, and he had also managed to trade some cigarettes with one of the Hungarian guards for a large loaf of bread. Mother accepted the bread, cut it into nine wedges, and passed the pieces to us. Mrs. Gerber held her gift in her hand, and before giving it to Iboya, she made a presentation speech.
“This is for a brave and wonderful young woman with the promise that, when the war is over, I’m going to make you a real party, the kind you deserve, at my father’s house in Budapest, where we’ll have champagne, music, and the proper presents.”
Iboya then took the brown paper bag, opened it, and pulled out Mrs. Gerber’s white silk embroidered shawl. She put it over her shoulders and twirled around, brushing us with the long, silk fringes as she turned. We stood there admiring her, and then took our turns in kissing her and wishing her a happy birthday. I gave her the poem I had written, and Judi gave her a thick book. Shafar left, but said that he would return later.
And so that evening three young men came to call after we had finished eating our supper, and all three of them were freshly shaved. Mother’s face lit up when she looked at them. They bowed to her in greeting and said their “Good evening,” and then the six of us left the tent. Iboya wore her new shawl carefully draped over her shoulders. When we got to the gate surrounding the Weiss residences, the guards questioned the presence of Shafar and Iboya. Shafar brought two packages of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and gave one to each guard, and they waved us in.
Mr. Weiss was standing on the porch, and he asked the six of us to come into the house. Inside, in the salon, Mrs. Weiss, wearing an elaborate dressing gown, was stirring a pitcher filled with a raspberry drink. She welcomed us as though we were her very special friends, and then explained, “I still had some syrup left, so I mixed a punch for the occasion of Iboya’s birthday, and I have some jam left as well. Not an elegant party, but the best I could manage under the circumstances.”
I glanced at Iboya, thinking that news travels fast in the ghetto. Mr. Weiss sliced up some bread and cut it into small pieces; then he brought out some glasses and Mrs. Weiss poured a drink for each of us.
Mr. Weiss raised his glass. “Let us all pretend that this is champagne. A toast to Iboya and to a future of freedom where young love can flourish.” As we clinked our glasses, I made my own silent toast—like the one Mother had made at the seder—“Next year may we all be together in Komjaty.” As we drank the punch and savored small bites of bread spread with emerald-green gooseberry jam, Mr. and Mrs. Weiss admired the ring Shafar had given Iboya and the silk shawl from Mrs. Gerber. After we finished eating, Mr. Weiss took Henri, Gari, and Shafar with him into the other room and closed the door.
“Men,” said Mrs. Weiss with annoyance. “They have to have their little secrets of war and games.”
I watched Iboya admiring Mrs. Weiss’ gestures, and I realized that Gari’s mother was beautiful and graceful. Her dressing gown swirling gently about her, she collected the glasses and floated across the room to set them down on a small table against the wall. Then she sat down elegantly on the sofa next to Iboya and began to speak to her.
“I’ve heard that your Shafar is quite a man. He came to Beregszász, I understand, after running from Budapest, and turned himself in. Not many have the courage to walk into the German headquarters and say, ‘I’m ready to go to the ghetto.’ I guess he made them think that he was too scared to keep on running. Smart boy. Where did you meet him?”
I was glad to have my question about Shafar’s appearance in the Beregszász ghetto answered at last. Iboya was saying that she had met Shafar at the Zionist Club before he left for Budapest.
“He is so impressive,” Mrs. Weiss said, “and brave, too. I’m sure his job in Budapest was just a front for other things. Had I known that there were men of his caliber in that club, I might have joined it myself.” She chuckled, to make a joke of her statement, but I wondered how much of a joke it really was.
The atmosphere in the salon grew heavy; none of us dared to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing. Mrs. Weiss turned her attention to Judi.
“And you, my dear, I have heard, are an excellent dancer.”
“Thank you. In Budapest we used to have many parties,” Judi managed to say.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Weiss, “I know what you mean. We used to have many parties, too, in the big house. How long ago it all seems. Soon we won’t remember.” Mrs. Weiss walked over to the phonograph, put a record on, and cranked the handle. A waltz melody drifted over the room. She held up her arms to an imaginary partner and waited for the beat; then she started to circle, weaving her way in and out between the tables and chairs. The door to the other room opened, and the men came into the salon. They looked at Mrs. Weiss gliding about, first with surprise, then with amusement.
She danced over to Shafar and stretched her arms out to him. He hesitated and then, encircling her waist with his right arm, said, “Well, I’ll try, but this sort of thing is not my line.”
“It is easy,” she said, looking down at their feet. “Count the beats as you step—one, two, three; one, two, three.” They circled away, and Mr. Weiss checked to make sure that the windows were closed. Afte
r moving some chairs out of the center of the room, he came over to Iboya and asked her to dance. Her face flushed to match the embroidered roses in her shawl, but she got up and moved gracefully into Mr. Weiss’ outstretched arm. Her body remained stiff, but her feet easily followed.
“And where did you learn to waltz, Iboya?” Shafar asked her after the music had stopped.
“My brother-in-law, Lajos, taught me.”
Gari cranked up the phonograph again, turned the record, and asked Judi to dance. They had the floor all to themselves as the rest of us stood and watched. Judi’s toes hardly touched the ground as Gari and she waltzed round and round. With her skirt billowing out from her tiny waist, she floated past us effortlessly. Mr. Weiss started to applaud, and we all joined in. Then the curfew sounded, and we said our goodbyes and thank-yous to Mr. and Mrs. Weiss. Henri and I led the way through the gate, followed by Iboya and Shafar and then, a little farther back, Gari and Judi. We said our good nights to our escorts in as much privacy as we could each manage.
Henri stood with his back against the shed’s beam and pulled me close to his chest. I could hear his heart beating and felt very sad yet very peaceful. We stood that way without moving for a few minutes. Then Henri released me, cradled my face in his hand, and kissed me gently on the lips. He dropped his hands abruptly, turned, and walked away. I went straight into the shed without looking back.
22
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as soon as we were outside together, Judi told me that she and Gari had kissed good night in an adult fashion with their lips parted. “You must try it, if you get another chance,” she said.
Her frankness irritated me even though it aroused my curiosity. But she was right about our not having another chance. As we stood outside the shed, Mr. Shuster passed us on his way in, and we followed him into our tent. Startled by his gloomy appearance, Mother and Mrs. Gerber gave him all of their attention as he told them that he had just received orders to get us ready for our departure.
“Oh, my God!” Mother cried out. Mrs. Gerber turned white and remained speechless.
“I’m going to post the instructions at the front of the shed, and I’ll need some help in getting these women organized. Even though they were expecting it, it will still be a shock to them. I hope you ladies will give me a hand in carrying out these orders.”
He had just stepped outside the tent with the four of us behind him when a German officer entered our barracks, with two Hungarian policemen. The officer called loudly in German—“Achtung!”—and there was an instantaneous and eerie silence. One of the Hungarian policemen began to speak. “The trains are expected today or tomorrow. You are being taken to work in factories in Germany, where you will be treated well, so there is no cause for alarm. You are to pack up your belongings and address them to Work Camp Number 500, Germany. Print your names and the address carefully; your baggage will be sent to you on the next train. Mr. Shuster will assist you, but you must cooperate fully with these orders.” He finished speaking and, in the German way, clicked his heels together and saluted the German officer, who had been glaring at the crowd of hushed women. Then the three of them turned and walked out.
Iboya appeared, running. She was trembling as she came up to us where we stood near the entrance to the shed beside Mr. Shuster, who was nailing up the instructions.
“They have dismissed me,” she cried and flung herself into Mother’s arms. “We are in the first transport. They are loading us alphabetically.”
“Are they dividing us up?” Mrs. Gerber asked with alarm.
“There will be about three or four transports. The youth police and the infirmary will be the last to go.”
“I don’t want to go without you,” Mrs. Gerber said to Mother and started to cry.
Judi and I looked at each other and our eyes welled with tears. “Come on,” said Judi to me, “let’s look for them,” and we walked to the back of the shed.
Iboya ran after us. “Don’t go looking for them,” she said as she caught up with us. “They are in a meeting. If they have a chance, they will come here. Otherwise, last night was a farewell. We have to help these women get themselves together.”
I looked around the shed and saw some women starting to gather their children, others poking aimlessly among their bundles. Mr. Shuster had walked down to the back of the shed, and Mrs. Gerber followed him.
“Don’t let them separate us,” she appealed to him. “Our two families must stay together.”
“If it’s up to me, I’ll keep you together. But I can’t promise,” he whispered back. She walked over to her space and began to fold up her blankets.
Iboya began to tear down our sheet wall and cut it into small squares.
“Here,” she said to Judi and me as we stood there watching her, “pass these squares out among the women and tell them to print their names and ‘Work Camp 500’ on them and to sew them onto their bundles. We have a few extra needles and some thread for those who need it.”
At last we had our chance to be helpful. Not only did we distribute the white squares of sheeting, but we also helped the women print their names and the address on the squares before they sewed them onto their bundles. We worked with our ears straining to register any distant sound. After we had finished, Judi and I walked up to the front of the barracks and looked across the fields to the empty tracks. But they were no longer empty; trainmen were working on them.
“It’s being readied,” Judi commented.
Returning to the barracks, we found people sitting on their bundles, almost as if they expected the train to come right into the shed. Mr. Shuster paced up and down, chewing on his pipe, obviously disturbed by the unnatural quiet in shed number 6. Finally he walked outside.
Judi and I followed Mr. Shuster and saw him look across the fields at the workmen on the tracks. We turned our gaze to the infirmary, hoping to see Gari and Henri coming toward us. But the road was empty. Judi noticed Mr. Shuster looking at his watch. “It appears as if you can’t wait for the trains to come,” she snapped at him.
“If we are going, it might as well be soon,” he answered. “What good is this waiting to any of us?”
“I’m in no particular hurry,” said Judi with sarcasm.
I decided then to ask Mr. Shuster the question gnawing at me ever since the coming of the trains was announced. Watching all those people following so readily the German orders to leave their lives behind, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if we were not so obedient.
“Mr. Shuster,” I asked hesitantly, “what would happen if we refuse to leave when the trains come?”
Mr. Shuster turned toward me, still chewing on his pipe as he weighed my question. Judi spoke up. “She means if we put up a resistance.”
He removed the pipe from his mouth and held it, the bowl cupped in his hand, as he spoke. “Girls, the answer is self-evident, but I’ll answer it by asking you a question. Why do you think the Hungarian police and the German guards carry rifles with bayonets? I understand how you feel, but I’m afraid we have no choice.”
“Man always has an alternative, and a choice,” Judi retorted. “It has been demonstrated throughout history in every war.”
“Demonstrated, yes, but rarely accomplished. In order to resist, your position has to be comparable to your enemy’s. They have an iron army, and we—we don’t even have men.”
“Many well-known resistance groups were made up of small numbers of people,” Judi persisted.
“Look around you, Judi. What do you see?” Mr. Shuster waved his arm about. “A pack of frightened women and children with a few old men scattered among them. Some resistance group we would make.”
“We have some young men and also some women who are not afraid,” Judi continued to argue.
“To be brave is very honorable. To be foolhardy is very wasteful. I thought I was being brave when I deserted my work group and went to look for my family. But I was picked up before I could find them. Now I am without my comrade
s as well as without my family.”
To my astonishment, Judi became sympathetic. “I’m really sorry about your bad luck, Mr. Shuster,” I heard her say in a deflated voice.
“It is the times. Very bad to be a Jew during depressions. We make such perfect scapegoats.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because we are a minority, well conditioned to persecution. Sometimes I think that this is our purpose.”
“To be scapegoats? That sounds very unfair,” Judi commented. “Especially since we are supposed to be the chosen people.”
“To be chosen is a big responsibility,” said Mr. Shuster. “Sometimes God uses us in very strange ways.”
I was confused. It all sounded too complicated to me. “Mr. Shuster,” I asked, “what exactly is a scapegoat?”
He stopped poking his thumb into the bowl of his pipe and answered slowly, “In the Bible, when Aaron’s sons died, God told Moses to go to Aaron and tell him to lay the sins of the Jews on the head of a sacrificial goat and to send the goat out into the wilderness to carry off all the sins of Israel.”
So that’s what Mother meant when they took away Ladybeard, I reflected.
“But these are not our sins,” I said, “they are the Germans’. Why should we have to carry them?”
“The Germans are twisting God’s words and sending us to carry their sins into the wilderness.”
“If this is the way God chooses to use His people, I’d rather not be chosen,” said Judi defiantly. “We are what we allow ourselves to be. The whole concept of Judaism is archaic. Both our culture and tradition are cowardly. We obey out of fear, not devotion, and forfeit our freedom. As a consolation we have accepted or invented the belief that we are the chosen people. What an outrageous excuse! I, for one, am not going to be used for such a purpose. I don’t even consider myself Jewish.”
Upon the Head of the Goat Page 18